Snapshots of Pain
by noenigma
Summary: Another look at "The Shooting on the Green". Rated for mature subject matter.
1. Lyn

Notes: This is an addition...back track actually of _Shooting on the Green_. I thought the story was finished, but apparently I was wrong.

I'm not sure this is really a story in itself, it is more just snapshots of frozen moments of time. I have a pile of my own—standing with my brother waiting to be taken up to the ICU to hold his son's hand as he died and watching in numbed, disconnected bewilderment as the second plane slammed into the second Tower on a muted TV screen in the hospital lobby; my sister's voice, fragile and disembodied over the phone, saying, "Ben drowned," with the sounds of my children laughing and playing outside in the sun and me standing there in gathering darkness gasping and trying to take in the finality of those words —I have no idea why I am sitting here developing someone else's, but here they are.

Like most snapshots, they are somewhat out of focus and fuzzy…I'm leaving them more or less the way they came out of the dark room of my mind, because moments like these are too painful to dwell on. It could be over the next few months I'll dig them out and try to clean them up a bit, but for now…I just want to put them in the box, close the lid, stick them in the closet, and forget about them. I'm hoping posting them will do just that.

_Snapshots of Pain: Lyn_

There had been, all the years of her growing up, a codeword her parents had shared. Lyn couldn't have said when she'd come to understand it or its significance, but she could remember clearly the early summer evening when it had fallen apart.

Lyn should have been in her room studying for a biology exam, but her mother was in a bit of a state. Chief Inspector Morse had called the house looking for her dad quite some time before…only her dad had never shown up. Not that unusual of a situation. Almost certainly, Morse had only assumed her dad was on his way home, her dad had returned to the station, and the chief inspector had sent him right back out on some errand or another or else had talked him into a drink or two before calling it a day.

Her mum, even though she couldn't help worrying when such things cropped up, knew it as well as Lyn. And her brother, wandering in, thought the same thing. Still, they both knew their mother wouldn't really relax until their dad was home. Recognizing her anxiety and not willing to leave her to it, her children had hung around the kitchen, helping chop the vegetables for the salad and talking about their days. Their mum for her part worked at not worrying, laughing with them over their stories, and going about the business of making the meal.

Worry was the white elephant in the room. It was, Lyn supposed, like that in a lot of households where one parent or the other worked in a risky profession.

When the phone rang, her mother had jumped for it as though it were a lifeline, but it had only been her Gran wanting to know when they were getting together for lunch the next day. As her mum had hung up the phone, Lyn had caught her eye and given her a reassuring smile.

"He'll be home, Mum. You know he will."

Her mum had bitten her lip and bravely returned her smile. "Of course, he will. Hopefully, before this roast is all dried out. If Morse just has him down at the pub…" The three of them had shared a smile over that. There were days when one or the other of them didn't find Morse's monopolization of his sergeant's time a laughing matter, but, even though they weren't truly worried yet, they'd all be happy to discover that their dad was just out 'thinking' with Morse.

The smile had faded quickly enough off of her mum's face, and it was Ken who had frowned over at her and for the first time used their parents' code. "You know what dad would say Mum…it's another world."

Lyn could vaguely remember lying in the dark, listening to the low murmur of her parents' voices… Ken must not have even been born yet, if she'd been sleeping in the cot in their room…yet, somehow she'd understood her mother was upset. Perhaps it was something in her voice, or perhaps Lyn had seen her tears in the glint of the streetlamp out the window? That quite possibly had been her first memory…the dark, her mother's distress, and her dad's gentle voice quietly cutting through both. "Nothing to fret about, Pet. It's another world." Lyn wondered what the young child she'd been had thought that had meant. She'd been too young for _Doctor Who_…what kind of world had she lain there and conjured up in response to her father's magical words?

She couldn't remember. But, she could remember other times though the years, when she'd heard her father say those same words. They'd always drawn her attention, always carried with them almost a mystical connection in her mind. Until, one day, she'd been there, sitting next to her mum telling her something about what had gone on at school that day. And, Mum, smiling, nodding her head in understanding, and then…something on the telly stole her attention away from Lyn. Something far away in London…and there on the screen the bleeding, crumpled bodies of three London police, and beside her Mum white and trembly, and Lyn herself not wanting to understand what it was all about. Just wanting her Mum to turn back to her and smile and say, "And then what happened?"

Only she hadn't. She'd given Lyn a shaky approximation of a smile and rose to turn off the telly. And went to the back door to stare out at Dad and Ken playing cricket in the back garden. Then she'd turned to Lyn with a sigh, and tried the smile again. "It's another world, Pet," she'd said, but she'd only sounded half convinced. And that must have been when Lyn had understood the code and what it meant.

Another world. That was what her dad would always say when there'd be a news story of policemen shot in London or killed in high-speed car crashes and the like. "Another world, Pet," he'd say when their mum's face would go white as they watched. And, it was what he would say when he'd come home late and find their Mum anxiously sitting up waiting for him. Not their world, not their lives. Coppers like their dad got shot at, killed, or hurt in places like London, not in Oxford. It was what he always said.

And that early summer evening, it was what his son told their mum right before they heard Morse's Jag drive up and the door slam as their dad got out. "See?" their Mum said brightly, a relieved grin wiping the worry from her face. "There he is…now, don't tell him how silly I've been." And they'd both grinned at her and tacitly agreed there was no need for him to know she'd worried.

And then their dad had come through the door, and they'd all stopped grinning. Because it was apparent in his white face, stooped shoulders, and bloodied clothing permeated with the acrid smell of sweat and fear that there was nothing magical in those words. They didn't live in another world after all.

There'd been no supper for their dad that night. Their mum had plied him with tea laced with brandy and put him in a hot bath and then tucked him up in bed, and watching her, Lyn figured her mum knew more about treating shock than the first aid books.

And that was the last time her parents' codeword was ever used as far as she knew. For Oxford wasn't another world after all, and it was all too easy for coppers like Robbie Lewis to end up killed even there.

Still, when she walked into the break room and saw the news of a shooting on a small green, she'd automatically asked, "Is it London, then?"

One of her coworkers had shaken her head and without looking away from the horrors on the screen answered, "No, Oxford."

And, Lyn's first thought was, "Not Oxford. It can't be Oxford…that can't be happening in Oxford." And if she'd had the presence of mind later to examine that thought, she wouldn't have been able to say if that was a reaction against the implausibility of such a thing happening in the staid, academic community of Oxford or a gut reaction of denial because she knew and loved people in the old city.

She had sunk into a well-worn, uncomfortable chair and watched in disbelief as the chief superintendent of the Oxfordshire Police had addressed the cameras. Her father's boss. And all the time Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent was speaking, Lyn could hear her dad's soft voice saying quietly, "It's another world, Pet. Nothing to fret over."

She rose on shaky feet to fumble around in her locker and pull out her mobile. If her dad knew what was going on, he would have sent her a message, so she would know he was all right, so that she wouldn't worry. Only there was no message. Of course, there wasn't. Her dad would have been out investigating some crime or another. He wouldn't know about a shooting in Melray Green that was only now happening. He wouldn't know she would be needing him to call and reassure her he was miles away and totally oblivious to the horrifying events on the telly.

And then there'd been the questions from the press. The one question that had sent her heart rate racing even faster than it had been every since her coworker had said, "No, Oxford."

"We've heard that there were policemen on the green when the shooting started. Can you confirm that, Ma'am?"

DCS Innocent had looked the camera squarely in the eye and answered, "It is much too early to know who is involved in this incident. However, I can tell you, if there were policemen or anyone else in civil service who might conceivably be perceived as a threat or a bargaining tool…we can't discount the possibility that the gunman is monitoring the news or is in contact with someone who is…we would not release any information that would play into the shooter's hands." And Lyn had recognized that was a nonanswer to a question for which she desperately needed an answer.

Her hands were trembling as she dialed her dad's number. It went immediately to voice mail…that wasn't all that unusual. He frequently didn't take calls when he was interviewing witnesses or suspects or in meetings. She shook her head and told herself she was being ridiculous to be so worried. What were the chances her dad would be on Melray Green? She was being as silly as her mum had that long ago…only her mum hadn't been being silly, had she? Her dad had almost died that day. But that was then, this was—

She watched in numb disbelief as on the screen, her father's sergeant inched his way out onto the green. She'd met him only briefly for a few minutes here and there on her occasional, quick visits home, but his long, lanky features and build were unmistakable…and the suit didn't hurt. A detective's suit. He wasn't there for a picnic or a bit of football with his mates. He was there for work.

And that meant…nothing. It didn't mean a thing, she assured herself as she watched with horror a tiny child stand up from where she'd been lying and partially hidden next to a…body and awkwardly run to her father's sergeant. There was no reason to assume her father had been with his sergeant…her dad would be safely back at the station, watching as horrified as she was as his sergeant heroically rescued the toddler.

Only, she couldn't make herself believe it, couldn't hear the memory of her dad's reassuring, 'Another world, Pet'. She rushed to the loo and was ill. Then she tried her dad again, and then she called the station and was passed from one voice to the next…and by then half the ward had known something was dreadfully wrong, and her supervisor had taken her off to a quiet room and fetched her tea and she'd stared numbly into the cup wondering if someone had had the foresight to lace it with brandy. And then she was crying and then…

"Lyn? It is Lyn, isn't it? This is Jean Innocent. I work with your dad…you've seen the news, then?"

"Yes…please…" she couldn't ask, couldn't form the words to beg the woman to tell her her father was safely away from the green.

"I'm very sorry. Your dad…he was—is! He is at the shooting. We don't know exactly what his situation is, but we know he is alive."

"He won't…I've been trying to call."

"I know…listen, is someone there with you?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'm not going to lie to you. We know he's been shot…we don't know how badly, and we don't know how quickly we are going to be able to get to him. I…I wish I had better news for you, and I wish…we knew more, but—I'm sorry."

Shot. Her dad had been shot. Her dad had been shot back home in Oxford, and she was a million miles away. "I'm coming," she said. "I'm coming."

"That's fine. That's good."

"Tell him…when you…tell him, I'm coming."

"Yes, I will."

"On the train. I'm coming on the train," she said because Tim had never replaced his broken-down car. They'd driven to London after…one of Dad's colleagues had picked them up straight from their classes and driven them to London. Someone must have taken Dad up before then…surely, he hadn't driven there himself when the Met had called to tell him? None of them had had anything…not a change of clothes, not even a toothbrush. Not that it mattered. They'd only needed one thing, and they'd lost her before the morning came.

DCS Innocent cut into her scattered thoughts, "When you know your arrival time, if you call me, I'll see someone's there to meet you."

"Yes. All right."

"I'm sorry, Lyn," Innocent said, and Lyn heard the sincerity in her voice and believed her. "I really must…I have some things I need to see to…" Of course. She needed to see to getting Lyn's dad safely to hospital and stopping a madman. And Lyn…she had things to see to, as well.

She called Tim because she could hardly drink her tea without someone to steady her hand and no way was she going to be able to get to the train station without help. And after she'd haltingly told him what was happening and he promised to be there as soon as he could possibly make it…after that she called Australia.


	2. Ken

_Snapshots of Pain: Ken_

Ken Lewis missed his sister's call, and she'd been unable to force the words out and leave a message. The text she sent instead, "Call me. Now," came through just as he stepped from the shower, and without a hint of foreboding, he read it still dripping wet because he'd been expecting a message from his girl.

Perhaps, if he hadn't already lost someone suddenly and permanently, he would have read that short text and felt nothing more than a slight frustration. It wasn't uncommon for him to go without hearing from his family back home for weeks at a time, but it never failed when he did hear from them it was always when he was expecting another call or was busy. He toyed with the idea of leaving it until later. It was that 'Now' that kept him from going through with that…it didn't sound like his sister. And, there'd been a 'Now' scrawled on the note from the headmaster telling him he needed to report to the office the day his mum…he sniffed back his unease and shook his head over his foolishness and called his sister.

"Ken," she said, and, at the sound of her shattered voice, he almost disconnected the call.

"Tim?" he asked, and was that because he automatically assumed whatever had happened must have involved the boyfriend he'd only talked to long distance or because he could have borne that better than the alternative?

He'd never meant to virtually abandon his dad or Lyn. He hadn't run to Australia to get away from them, only his own grief and loss. But, somehow, it had ended up the same thing in the end. Sometimes, so far away from home, he could pretend that horrible day his mum had died and all the dreadful days following it had never happened. It was cowardly, he thought—and so did Lyn though she'd only ever said it the once and she'd been more than drunk at the time. He didn't know what his dad thought about it. And he was glad for that…

Knowing what his dad thought, seeing what his dad felt…he hadn't fled to Australia to avoid seeing the pain and emptiness in his dad, but…when he'd somehow survived his own loss and pain and came out the other side, it was why he hadn't gone home. Only the once had he made the trip back to the UK, and that had been when his dad was on special assignment out of country. And that had been when Lyn had told him he was a coward, not that he hadn't known it already.

But, there were things you could know about yourself, things you didn't care for one bit, but that didn't keep them from being a part of who you were. He could live with his own loss, he could see it mirrored in his sister's face and live with it, too, or at least, endure it for a time, but his dad's…

Ken had loved his mum. She'd been the best, and he would always miss her. But, his dad…well, they'd married when they were hardly more than kids themselves, and they'd been that close for all those years. Losing his wife hadn't been like losing just an arm or a leg to his dad; more like being cut in half and left to bleed to death. And Ken had been helpless to stop the bleeding or ease the pain back then when it had happened. And, even now, years later, he was still helpless in the face of his dad's loss—or he still felt as though he were.

Their long distance conversations were stilted, awkward affairs filled with too many pauses where the only sound was the quiet, swallowing down of unshed tears from both ends of the world.

"Not Tim," his sister's voice said, and he couldn't help her either. Whatever she had to tell him, whatever she needed to choke out, he couldn't help her get the words out. He was too busy swallowing.

"It's Dad, Ken…he's been shot."

"Aahoohh—" It was an inarticulate, incoherent sound that Ken heard come from his own throat, but it was more coherent than his thoughts. Shot. Their dad had been shot. No. There had to be some mistake…his dad was too careful of a cop to get shot. His dad…no. Cops didn't get shot in Oxford (only, of course, they did…there'd even been the one while his dad had been there.*) But… "Not Dad," he protested weakly, and only realized he'd somehow gotten the words out of his mouth when he heard them.

Lyn cried into his ear from ten thousand miles away, and Ken slumped weakly against his wall and slid down it to the floor. His dad was dead. He should have gone home, he should have called more often, he should have never ended his calls 'catch you later, Dad' instead of 'I love you, Dad…I always have." After London…he should have known better.

He'd been late getting off that morning, it was the last day of school before the holidays and he'd had a paper due and not quite ready. He'd rushed past his mum on both of their ways out the door, he off to school and Mum…to her shopping in London. (Someone had picked up the scattered and torn plastic bags and gifts and carted them up to the hospital after…they'd sat in a messy pile in the corner of the family waiting room on the ICU ward that long night. Ken had stumbled over them every time he'd come back from the few minutes he'd been able to take at his Mum's bedside, but then…when it was over—there'd been gone. The whole pile of them. Just like Mum.) She'd called after him, something he'd been in too much of a rush to hear let alone answer…and if he could have lived his life over, he would have turned back, made sure he heard whatever it was she'd said, given her a hug, and a 'love you, Mum'.

Instead, he'd never gone home to see his dad, rarely spoke to him on the phone, and …now he was dead.

His sister sniffed, gave a shuddering sigh, and said, "They…can't get to him…there's uh…someone shooting—they don't know how bad…he is."

Ken took a minute to process the message. "Dad…he's," he bit his lip and rocked his body back and forth against the wall, and finally was able to put the thought to words, "not dead?" It was more a whisper than anything else. A whisper of hope.

"No! I'm sorry, Ken—I…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No. No. That's all right." For that one second he clung to that thought. Everything was all right. His dad wasn't dead. He began to cry, softly at first and then wracking sobs. "It's all right," he told his sister through them. "It's all right."

_*In looking for numbers for this piece, I came upon The Police Roll of Honour Trust website which remembers British Police officers who have fallen in the line of duty, and discovered that in Lewis' time in Oxford there has been at least one officer shot and killed (1987) And, we know from Inspector Morse _The Promised Land_ that at least one fictional officer died before Lewis' time. (I also discovered that Thames Valley Police in the real world is still the Thames Valley Police…not sure why the show switched to Oxfordshire? Or maybe I've just misunderstood and he's simply switched stations? My apologies for any confusion.)_

_Later Note: Since the show never acknowledged the switch between _Inspector Morse's_ Thames Valley Police and _Lewis_' Oxfordshire, I'll continue to assume in my writings that there was a restructuring of the departments some time between Morse's death and Lewis' return from special assignment. In actuality, for one reason or another the _Lewis_ programme was not able to use the name and such of the Thames Valley Police and was forced to go with Oxfordshire instead. I should have done the research and had that straight before writing my first Lewis stories but guess it works out anyway in the end._


	3. Hobson

_Snapshots of Pain: Hobson_

Laura Hobson had liked Sergeant Lewis from the first moment she'd met him. The ring on his finger had kept her from doing anything about it, but there it was. Her predecessor, Dr. Russell, had warned her about Morse and his 'dears', and Laura had driven out to Blenheim prepared to meet him head-on and make sure he never made that same mistake with her even though Grayling had seemed more amused than offended by Morse's patronizing attitude. But, Lewis…no one had warned her about his easy smile and friendly, interested eyes.

But, that had been a long time ago…and if she'd liked Morse's easy-going, smiling sergeant then, she'd slowly come to understand she loved the quieter, much more vulnerable inspector he'd grown into. Though she'd done precious little about it. She'd always been a take-charge sort of person, certainly never one to wait around at home hoping the phone would ring. Only with Lewis had she ever felt such a need for caution…patience had never been one of her strengths, but with Lewis—it had been a very slow dance to get to where they were—wherever that was—in their relationship.

Colleagues, friends, hints and hopes of something more, and back to friends or maybe colleagues once again. If he'd been any other man, she would have thrown her hands up in the air and called up an old lover or confronted him…told him how she really felt and demanded he do the same. But, he wasn't any other man, and she…she thought he was worth the investment.

Only, it would have been easier if she knew for sure the friendliness and warmth in his eyes when they were together was more than the open, friendliness that had always been in his eyes before pain had made him draw back from the world and which still managed to shine through on occasion.

"No one knows how you feel unless you tell them," she'd counseled him when he'd been struggling over what to do with his own sergeant thinking of throwing in the towel. And even as she'd said it, she'd peered at him intensely, hoping he knew what she was feeling without her having to tell him. Because she'd been afraid. Afraid he'd run from her feelings or worse just tell her kindly and gently that he wasn't interested.

At that moment, she had believed that was the worst thing that could happen. But, now…he could laugh at her or spurn her or whatever he wanted. Just so long as he lived.

She squatted beside Hathaway and the tiny waif he'd somehow bewitched and tried not to cry. Funny that, the two of them there, both of them trying not to cry, both of them desperately afraid for the man they both loved, and neither of them capable of reaching out and being a comfort to the other.

That was the way it was between them, always. Too alike, she thought, down to their very dry, very caustic sense of humors. If it had been Lewis sitting there, she would have known what to say to at least let him know he wasn't alone. But, Hathaway…she stayed in her own little world of fear and he stayed in his. While the man, who could bridge that gap between them lay out of their reach, bleeding and quite possibly dying.

She hadn't wanted to listen to the medical reports passed among the doctors and medics waiting for the word it was safe for them to do their jobs. But she hadn't been able to not. So, she knew, as much as she could from a distraught, frightened father's uninformed assessments, Lewis was hanging on by a thread—a rather thin, easily snapped thread. And if something didn't break soon…she and Hathaway would be forever trapped in this moment, just like Lewis had been trapped in Val's death all this time.

The news had spread like a wild fire. She'd been performing the postmortem of a child who'd slipped on a patch of ice and had the incredibly bad fortune of hitting his head with just enough force at just the wrong angle to end up on her table under her knife. One minute everything had been right in the world, and the next…it was an aspect of her job that she never quite came to grips with. Everyday she learned again how quickly and how easily everything could be lost, and everyday she had to learn again how to go on holding life dear and living it to the fullest with that knowledge looming over her.

And that's when one of the lab workers had come in and stood outside the sterile field, her face pinched in a worried frown.

"What?" she'd barked. Harsher than she should have because her hands had been wet with the blood of a child.

"Inspector Lewis, Doctor…his wife. They say she's been run over—in London. They say she isn't going to make it." She'd finished up that postmortem with hot, sympathetic tears leaking from her eyes and a pervading fear for Lewis working its way through her body. And that she knew had been nothing compared to what he'd gone through that day and every day since.

Something like that, it didn't go away. Time heals all wounds they say, but they weren't always right. It might allow a thin scab to form over such a grievous wound, but that wound would never come close to healing over. And if she hadn't known that before Valerie Lewis died, she would have known it after watching her husband struggle to live his life with the gaping wound of her loss torn through his very soul.


	4. Innocent

Snapshots of Pain: Innocent

Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent of the Oxfordshire Police spent a lot of her time straddling very fine lines. Those between her men and women on the streets fighting to maintain law and order and the men over her pursing their lips and shaking their heads over expense accounts and the high cost of fast-track ballistic reports. Those between her officers who had fought and scratched their ways up off the streets and those who'd done their fighting and scratching over books and papers in institutes of higher learning. And those between a community which expected safe streets and invisible policing; demanded immediate and decisive action when it suited them and a blind eye when it didn't; and wanted it all on a dime.

She'd paid her dues to get where she was, and it hadn't come cheap. She'd paid it in blood, sweat, and tears on the street and at a desk. She'd shorted her outside life, her parents and siblings, her marriage, and her sons to pay those dues. And for what? To stand under the shelter of trees on a small rise over a sunny green and let a group of civilians under her protection and a good man die while a maniac played cat and mouse with the special ops team and refused to drop under their bullets?

Hardly. All those lines she's walked and none has been as fine as this one.


	5. Fiona McKendrick

_Snapshots of Pain: Fiona McKendrick_

The word had spread around the Yard in a matter of moments…major incident in Oxfordshire.

Inspector Fiona McKendrick, still desperately trying to learn the ropes and not fall off the fast rising ladder to which she'd hooked her star, hadn't had the time to pay much attention to anything but the job. And then everything had come to a crashing halt when one of her colleagues had called over to her, "Hey, McKendrick, isn't Oxford your old stomping grounds? What do you know about this chap? Is he the biggest idiot this side of the Channel or the biggest hero?"

And she'd looked up from the open files falling off her desk to see the man she might have loved if she hadn't had something better to do with her life (and might have anyway if she wasn't so good at lying to herself) save the life of twenty-two month old Ally Cline.

Her mind had still been in gear even if her world had just ground to a halt. She hadn't wanted to show weakness before the others, hadn't wanted them to see the deep, bottomless chasm opening under her feet, so she'd answered the question without even a pause for reflection, "Hero." And, hearing that one word, she'd known she'd made the biggest mistake of her life when she'd left Oxford and the sergeant slowly easing himself and the little girl to the shadowed safety of the bridge.


	6. The Hathaways

Snapshots of Pain: The Hathaways

The parents of Sergeant James Hathaway didn't watch their son's heroism play out on  
>TV screens all over the UK. They'd been in the back of a patrol car on their way to Oxford. On their way to their son. The rest of the nation had known he was, at least for that tiny fraction of time alive, but they'd known only that their son was trapped in a nightmare, and no matter how fast the constable driving the car drove…they'd never arrive in time to protect him from the horror he was living—or, please, no, dying through. They'd known as every parent at one time or another has or will know…their child was suffering, frightened, and hurt and they were helpless to stop it.<p>

The sergeant's mother had quietly cried into her husband's shoulder, and he'd been as helpless to ease her distress, and his own, as their son's.

It wasn't the first time.

A man, a man like James Hathaway, Sr., Esquire who'd been raised to believe there was some innate difference between a man of his station and a man like Augustus Mortmaigne, Marquess of Tygon, would turn a blind eye to a lot of things. Better not to see, not to know, not to have to face the moral dilemmas an open eye might bring about.

A man like that…well, if he'd been a man, if he hadn't wanted to hold onto his position so badly, hadn't wanted to not endanger all a position like that could afford his wife and…yes, he'd told himself it was for his son, as well, would allow a lot to go on as long as it didn't touch his family. Even once he couldn't help but know, no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, what sort of evil was festering at Crevecoeur, a…whatever he was, certainly not a man, would keep his mouth shut, let things go. Because it was the job, wasn't it, and men like Mortmaigne …they were above the law and looking the other way was just the way things were done.

He'd thought he had taken precautions enough…dropped the right hints, met the man's eyes every time they spoke with an unspoken warning, an unvoiced threat. "Keep your hands off my son. Don't go near him, don't touch him, don't even speak his name." People like James Hathaway, Sr…they didn't go to the police—and who would listen anyway? The word of an estate manager over that of a Lord? They went to their priest whose hands were just as tied by long held traditions and unspoken vows of silence as Hathaway and his like were themselves.

And all the time, they swallowed their own bile and watched their son like a hawk and prayed for absolution and protection. And all the time their outgoing, happy, always singing little boy went quieter and quieter and further and further away. And they couldn't ask, could they? Couldn't ask, couldn't know, couldn't do anything but try to convince themselves all was right in a world that was very much not all right.

And save every shilling they could without letting their wife know something was going on, waiting for the day when there'd be enough put back to escape the once beloved and now hated estate they had poured all of their adult life and maybe the innocence and childhood of their son into.

And then, comes the day, when a man like Hathaway, thinking he's done all he can, believing he's done all he can to protect the people he loves, walks into his home and his wife says—offhand, as though it is the most innocent statement in the world, and to her it is because who could have told her the awful cost of the nice house and holidays at the seaside and young James' schooling—"The Lord called and asked if James couldn't fetch him his—" and Hathaway had, for the first and only time in their lives, grabbed her roughly by her shoulders and yelled at her.

"What? You didn't! You didn't send James to that man, did you?"

And she'd blinked in confusion and shock and stammered out, "What's wrong? Whatever is the matter with you? He only wanted his piano music…he'd forgotten it up at the house, and everyone was off. Why shouldn't I have sent James after it?"

"The summerhouse?" he'd asked, but he'd already known the answer and he'd already been running out the door. He'd stormed into the summerhouse like an angel of vengeance and surprised the Lord who looked up vaguely from the piano to blink at him.

"You! You…Filth!" Hathaway had said and hit him with the full force of all his fear for his son and his guilt. The Lord had fallen back, taking the piano bench with him, and Hathaway had loomed over him. "Where is my son?"

"I don't know…he never came," Mortmaigne had said. He'd crawled to his feet and he'd wiped the dust off his trousers and he'd left Hathaway standing there without a word of explanation or demand for one either.

Hathaway had run from the house then, desperate to find his son, to know he hadn't sacrificed him on the altar of failed traditions and petty ambitions. And he'd almost run into the boy.

James' eyes were red and his always-pale features white and strained. Pieces of shredded sheet music fluttered at his feet, and he looked up at the man who was afraid he didn't have the right to be called his father, and said, "I didn't go into the summerhouse, Dad. I…I'm afraid I've ripped up the Lord's music."

Making his confession. That's what the boy had been doing. Standing there afraid…afraid of what? That his father would punish him for the ripped music, afraid his father would send him to Mortmaigne with an apology, afraid his father would blame him for whatever went on in that summerhouse? Or afraid his father would ask him why he hadn't gone into the summerhouse and how he had known he mustn't.

Hathaway had stood there looking at his son and wanting desperately to grab him up and run with him as far as he could carry him away from Crevecoeur, wanting to wipe away the years, and doing neither. He'd placed a hand on his son's shoulder; he was already too tall to scoop up in his arms…the years of his childhood already slipping away. Hathaway hadn't trusted himself to answer the boy. He certainly wasn't worthy of hearing his confession, and he was powerless to erase whatever knowledge his son lived with about that summerhouse and what went on there.

They'd left Crevecoeur that day. His wife in tears at the sudden, unexplained, and somehow foreboding turn of events, and James…serious and quiet and farther away from him than ever. And he'd never returned…not even to stop aways up the drive and look the place over like he'd always loved to do when it had been his.

And he hadn't been able to quiet his wife's sobs as they'd driven away with no idea where they were going or if the police would follow them with questions about his attack on Mortmaigne. And, being incapable of reaching through the almost palpable wall of silence his son built up around him as they left the only home he'd ever known.


End file.
